Bounce
by Loyolablu
Summary: (Slash) Evan/Pietro, Evietro, etc. Evan is always busy on Saturday afternoons, and Pietro takes up the challenge of finding out why.
1. Default Chapter

Sunlight poured into a room that was almost unnatural in its tidiness. Floor free of clutter. Shelves dusted. Books lined up in neat little rows and clothes ironed, folded or hung  in the appropriate places. Furniture still slick with polish and shining like a new moon.

Pietro glanced around his room for the thousandth time, eyes seeking out anything that might still be out of place, or dirty, or crooked, or just plain wrong. And for the thousandth time, he found everything to be as perfect as it could be – even the horseshoe-shaped crack in his ceiling and the chipped paint around the baseboard had been fixed up. 

He sat down on his pristine bed with a frustrated sigh. He'd spent an entire three minutes – an eternity, or what passed for it for him – whipping his personal space into pristine condition, and now it was done, and there was nothing left for him to do, and it was only a quarter after noon, and . . .

_Bored. Boredboredboredbored . . ._

It was one of those afternoons about which TV weathermen and really bad poets waxed rhapsodically: clear, blue skies, powder-puff clouds and sun for days. A perfectly wonderful mid-April afternoon that carried with it an unspoken promise of fun and sweetness and adventure. . .

_Bored. Boredboredboredbored . . . _

Restless fingers picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. Yep. It was an abso-fucking-lutely perfect Spring day. Good time to go out and breathe the air and feel the sun on your neck – or something corny like that. Only a pathetic loser would stay in on a day like this. Unless, of course, one was sick or hurt or stuck doing housework. He glared around his spotless room. Or staying inside to frolic with a significant other . . .

Another glare. Then a sigh. Pietro fell back on the bed, aiming his dark stare at the ceiling. For the first time in . . . forever, it seemed like, he would have the whole house to himself. Fred and Todd had gone to the Bayville Galleria, armed with ballpoint pens and determined looks, eager to get a jump on finding summer jobs. Tabby had gone along, too, but it was more likely she'd spend her time planting random energy bombs around the food court, not filling out applications. 

Pietro had, for a very brief moment, considered going with his teammates, but decided against it: his talents were too great to waste doing something as mundane as stocking shelves at Foot Locker or joining the "burrito assembly line" at Taco Bell. Besides, half of Bayville High would be working there, and why the hell would he want to spend his fleeting weeks of freedom around people he had to put up with the other 10 months of the year?

He hadn't told the others that, though. The silver-haired teen had simply ushered his friends out with a too-eager smile and restlessly tapping feet, urging them to stay out until they'd nailed down jobs and not to "worry about him . . . he'd find something productive to do."

And he _had  _–for that aforementioned three minutes. The speedster smoothed a hand over his bedsheet, feeling the irrational urge to rumple the sheets into chaotic disarray just so he'd have to make it again. But that would kill, what, a second or two? Wasn't worth it.

Of course, if he had _help _making a mess of the bed – help of a tall, dark and blonde kind – that would be something else again. But no way in hell _that wasgonna happen, no way. Not today. It was Saturday. Satur-fucking-day. And __he was somewhere. The park, maybe. Or maybe he'd taken the train ride into the City to see his parents. Pietro didn't know and he didn't care; where Evan _wasn't_ – namely in his bed –was what was giving him a conniption fit._

Well _that _coupled with the knowledge that _Lance_ was not having the same problem. Or, at least, that's what the intermittent tremors seemed to suggest. Pietro carded a hand through his hair, wondering not for the first time how the damn house managed to stay standing through all of the shaking. Since Lance had started seeing his shaded wonder, there had been a lot more seismic activity in the old Victorian – and the other members of the Brotherhood had been finding other places to be during Scott Summers', er, visits. 

Usually the rocking didn't bother Pietro. Quite the contrary, he'd found the whole situation hilarious from the very beginning. Lance and Scott Summers. Lance _with _Scott Summers. The guy had always seemed to carry himself with the air of someone who had a large, blunt object rammed up his ass, so maybe it hadn't been such a stretch from _that _to a relationship with Lance. Pietro had been less surprised about the Lance part of the equation – he'd had enough experience with desire-masquerading-as-enmity to have recognized all the signs of infatuation in his dark-haired teammate. In fact, the only thing that surprised him somewhat was that Lance apparently wasn't bottoming more – at least that was the conclusion he'd drawn after watching Scott walk to his car after several late-night/early-morning visits. 

Early morning. That reminded him of the last time Evan stayed over. A dreamy smile commandeered the lower half of the speedster's face as he remembered just how much fun he and the blonde had had with half-a-bottle of Mrs. Buttersworth syrup and two bendy straws –

_Argh. _Pietro sat bolt upright in his bed, as aftershocks rippled through the upper floor, nearly tossing the speedster on the floor. No way he could stay in the house while the earthshaker was _entertaining_. But what else was there to do? Going to the movies was out, if he had to go alone. He didn't much feel like joining his brethren at the mall, and zipping through the Laundromat and pouring extra detergent in the machines lost its appeal after the first seventy times. Damn, had his Saturdays always been so boring? 

No, he knew what would assuage his boredom, and he wasn't anywhere around. And wouldn't be for the rest of the day, more than likely. Pietro glowered, the dark eyebrows like thunderclouds. Evan's unavailability on Saturdays had begun a few months before. Evan had never explained, really, what he did on that day, though Pietro knew that it had nothing to do with his X-Men duties – Summers' presence at the Brotherhood home was testament to that, but the blondee wasn't telling him what he_ was _doing. Once or twice, Pietro had attempted to trick/goad/tease Evan into divulging his weekend plans, but had come up empty each time. 

He didn't complain about it much, because he always saw the blonde on Saturday evenings, fresh from . . . whatever it was he'd been doing all day. But now, faced with the prospect of listening to and, in some respects,  _feeling,  _Lance get lucky all day, Pietro's mind turned to his lover. Evan's uncharacteristic vagueness and his evasive answer – which grew more and more flinty as the weeks wore on – gave Pietro pause. _He was supposed to be the shifty one, the one who routinely took off – at the speed of sound, no less – without notice, without warning! It was a trait the speed demon found endearing in himself, but annoying in everyone else – _especially_ his boyfriend. Pietro wondered if, perhaps, Evan was being purposefully vague, for the blonde _had _to know that his evasiveness was driving him insane. But that __could have been by design – Evan seemed to take as much delight, sometimes, in getting under the speedster's skin as he did in getting under the speedster's clothes. It was the same with Pietro, and was part of the give and take between the teens that had been the norm with them for years. But still . . . something about Evan's attitude – and the fact that Pietro was all alone on a perfectly beautiful Saturday afternoon – raised the speedy one's antennae, and he found himself burning with curiosity as to his blonde love's whereabouts. It was a curiosity he promised himself he would assuage later when Evan came around. He'd make the spykeboy give up his Saturday-afternoon whereabouts – oh yes. He had _ways_ of making the blonde talk. And moan. And scream. And . . . _

Reclining back on his bed, he turned a frustrated gaze to the ceiling, pondering his next move. Evan would be by around four, if the pattern held up. So that left him with about three hours to kill . . . he _could finish up the history report he'd been putting off for weeks. Or he could zip down to the video store and pick up a movie for the two of them to watch – he was in the mood for something gory and pointless. Maybe one of the newer Steven Segal movies? Or he could try to figure out where to go if the blonde suggested going out later. Pietro was tired of the same arcades and shopping centers . . . maybe he could scout around for something different. The problem was, however, that none of those things would take up much time. He had three hours to fill before he saw hide or bleached hair of his boyfriend. Three _hours_. It was like a thousand years to the fast-talking mutant. What could he do? He had to find _something_ –_

Another tremor shook him out of his thoughts, and a moan that trailed off into an oddly girly whine made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Apparently Lance and Scott were settling in for round two. Pietro shot up, his face burning red and his eyes narrowed. That was it. He'd had it. No way was he going to sit idle while the older mutants down the hall got their groove on. Throwing on his shoes, he streaked down the stairs and out the front door just ahead of a second vibration. The white-haired mutant was on a mission –  He was going to solve the mystery of The Missing Spike Shooter. He'd find the blonde. If he had to tear the whole freaking town apart, it didn't matter. He was going to find him.

~*~

Approximately 15 minutes later, Pietro gazed from around a well-placed tree at a wedding cake of a building – all layers of white stucco with red-paneled windows stuck here and there like errant cherries – that seemed extremely out of place in the staid, calm residential neighborhood in which it was situated. A sign hung above the red-tiled door proclaimed it to be the Bayville Recreation and Crafts Center, and indeed, the number of little kids streaming in and out of it, carrying such items as soccer balls and pastel chalks and construction paper seemed to confirm the weird-looking building's identity. Granted, if was unlike any of the red-brick and peeling-paint structures the speedy mutant had seen in the city, but then things were a little _different _in Bayville.

One question remained, though, Pietro thought as he inched closer to the building, then zipped behind a nearby bush. Well, actually _two questions – first and foremost, what would Evan be doing at a recreation center at all? Pietro had only been to the Xavier Institute once or twice – and he hadn't really had time to take a tour or anything – but he got the impression that the Institute's facilities trumped those of any recreation center in the world several times over.  He knew there was a sizeable pool and a basketball court _and _a volleyball court. God only knew what else Xavier had built in there to occupy his "gifted" charges. In any event, there didn't seem any need for Evan to go traipsing clear to the other side of town if all he wanted to do was shoot a game of hoops._

The second question required a little less thought, but was just as important to the speedster – namely, when the hell would Evan be coming _out_? Azure eyes watched groups of kids troop in and out of the building, but the dark blonde wasn't among them. Checking his watch, he saw that it was approaching 1 p.m. – and, if his source was correct, Evan had been out of the house since 9 a.m. Four hours? There wasn't a game in the world that took _that _long – except maybe chess, which Pietro doubted Evan knew the first thing about. Of course, the blonde had been known to spend an inordinate amount of time on his skateboard, but it was doubtful that the boy who went misty-eyed at the sight of a good stretch of sidewalk would be running routines _inside. The more Pietro glared at the entrance to the building the more his stomach knotted and his brain pounded, and the more he felt sure that he wouldn't find Evan anywhere near this place._

It served him right for putting his faith in one of Evan's idiotic teammates. His eyes narrowed, recalling his "brilliant" idea to get some leads on Evan's location by calling the mansion from a pay phone and impersonating one of the blonde's skater friends. Kitty Pryde had answered and had been her usual giggly, vapid self, but oh so eager to help. After about a billion "likes" and "you knows," a few "reallys" and four or five times being put on hold, the girl said that she heard from Kurt, who'd asked Jean, who'd overheard Evan's aunt talking on the phone to his mother, that the blonde was likely at the Bayville Arts and Recreation Center and would not be back until late evening at the earliest, but would he like to leave a message? 

 Pietro had hung the phone up before Kitty could launch into another round of "likes" and went zipping toward the town's center before he realized that he had no _clue where said center would be. Luckily there wasn't much ground to cover in Bayville, and on his third pass through, he'd stumbled upon this neighborhood and the building at the end of a cul de sac. And here he'd stayed, keeping a "low" profile, determined to not let the blonde think that he'd tailed him. Pietro had been planning a casual encounter . . . "bumping" into his beloved as he exited the building. But now it seemed as if the blonde teen wasn't even there, and Pietro had been holding surveillance on a bunch of scrawny kids. Of course, the blonde might have been at the center and left, but that didn't make much sense either – he would have called Pietro on his cell just as he always did before coming over, and the device in Pietro's back pocket had been silent all afternoon._

The speedster glanced at his watch again, wondering if Lance and Scott had finished up their morning/afternoon, er, ritual. Pietro was certain that he could get more reliable information from the nominal leader of the X-Men on his skating teammate's whereabouts, if, that is, the Shaded One had breath and braincells enough left to _talk. _From what Pietro had heard and _felt_, Lance could be a very _exacting_ boyfriend.

A drift of laughter caught the speed demon's attention, and he turned in time to see five or six kids running into the building, the foremost of them bouncing a basketball with remarkable precision. In spite of his annoyance, something of a wistful smile ghosted over the white-haired boy's lips. Looking at those kids, he was reminded of the City, and the Saturday afternoons he and the rest of the kids from the foster home were taken to the Boys & Girls Club in Queens. They stayed on the basketball court there for a couple of hours and hours playing hoops, running around, and acting generally like normal kids until they were bundled up and shipped back into the not-normal, stifled atmosphere of what the kids back in the City called "The Home." 

Pietro bit his lip, recalling that he always looked forward to Saturdays back then because it meant he would get to spend time doing something he loved – namely running and jumping and bouncing around. And he was conscious that things hadn't changed much – he still loved to do those things, he still hated even thinking of The Home, and he still looked forward to Saturdays. Even more so now, because not only did he get to spend time doing things he enjoyed, but he also got to do them with _someone he liked a lot. A whole lot._

Checking his watch again, Pietro sighed thoughtfully. This little excursion, fruitless as it was turning out to be, had killed some time anyway. And it could kill some more; eyeing the building, Pietro left the safe cover of the bush and tiptoed around until he was at a line with the front door. The floodgates of memories past had opened, and now he was feeling a bit of nostalgia. He thought maybe he'd take a look inside the place, just to compare it to his old haunt in the City. From the outside, of course, there were no similarities, but the inside . . . well, it had a basketball court, at least. _That_ was something.

Maybe if he was lucky, he could talk his way into a pickup game, something he hadn't done in quite a while – not since before his P.S. 104 days. Before all that, he and the blonde played playground ball all the time, going as far as Laurelton, sometimes, to get into a good game. And while he doubted he'd get anything remotely close to the competition he used to face back home, well, it would waste some more time, anyway. And besides – he felt it best to take the opportunity to see the entire place while he was there; the speed demon doubted he'd ever see the center again. He'd gone a year without even knowing its existence, after all.

Straightening his sweater, Pietro waited until a wholesome-looking family paused in the doorway, two adults ushering two screaming brats inside. As soon as the second kid's foot was in the door, a sharp breeze swirled round the adults, nearly knocking them on their butts, and leaving them blinking in wonder as to where such a sharp breeze could have come from on such a nice day.


	2. Second Chapter

Author's note: I forgot I had this. Sorry. Also, there's more of my **Action Verb Series **I'm going to post at some point on batE's Evietro site "Thin Line." I promised her more AVS if she wrote more Admirer, and since she's doing that apparently, I guess I have to keep my end of the deal even though I've technically left this fandom. Oh well. I don't even know if people still like Evietro.

R/R if you want. This clears up the mystery, I guess.

That same cutting breeze wound its way around several bored-looking college types standing near the door, around an exhibition of kids' "artwork," skirted a bunch of volleyball players who watched in amazement as their ball, caught up in the vortex of air, floated up to the ceiling, before coming to rest behind a set of bleachers. Poking his head cautiously around, Pietro took the opportunity to look around. As intricate as the façade of the building was, Pietro was expecting something with a little more . . . style, maybe. Definitely something bigger. But this place was about as spartan as even the most threadbare centers in the City. The hardwood floor was marked up with red lines, dividing the space into sizeable square areas – a volleyball net was set up the middle, something that looked like a table tennis/badminton court occupied a square place in the far wall, and a third square closest to the front door seemed to be  a free-for-all area. There was a corridor just behind the volleyball area that he assumed led to classrooms where the "crafts" were made, and, more than likely, led to bathrooms and/or locker rooms. Not bad, he conceded, completing his "tour" with an offhand shrug. The place was clean – in that overly sterile, Lysol-scented-air sort of way – and the equipment seemed in good shape and functional, something not always found in similar centers in the City. 

But there seemed to be something missing, and creeping along under the cover offered him by the wooden bleachers, the blue eyes sought it out. _Aha_! There it was. His eyes narrowed when he saw the basketball court – though calling it a _court was something of an overstatement – tucked away in a far corner of the building. It looked to be a little more than a half-court setup  – just two baskets and small as hell. Lame beyond belief – such a configuration was unheard of even in the most rundown rec centers back in New York._

A group of little kids trouping out to the .  . . court, or whatever it was, cut off his internal outrage. The youngsters were dutifully following a tall, dark-skinned guy carrying a clipboard in one hand and a basketball in the other – he had to be about 6 foot 5, with a wiry build and the type of finely muscled legs that would have been right at home on a swimmer or runner. His height, and the waist-length, red-tipped dreads he wore in a low ponytail, gave him a regal and somewhat imposing air, as well as an exotic look – one not easily missed in a town as small and homogenous as Bayville. In fact, Pietro was reasonably sure that he'd seen the guy somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where exactly. 

But the brown-skinned, bright-haired teen that sprinted out onto the court behind the last kid was instantly recognizable, and Pietro hunkered down while he watched Evan, dressed in shorts a tank and carrying a little clipboard of his own, trot up to the dreadlocked wonder and begin a conversation as the kids milled around bouncing basketballs and running up and down the court. Pietro couldn't make out what the two were saying, but by the intense look of concentration on Evan's face, Pietro figured it was of some importance. The speedster frowned; the older guy was likely not a new recruit or teacher at the Institute. First off, Evan would have mentioned it if he were, and second, Pietro wasn't getting a "mutant" vibe from the tall man. It was likely a "sense" he'd developed from his father, but Pietro always had a knack for telling who had powers and who did not. So, then, the question remained – what was this guy to Evan that the blond would devote a good part of his Saturday to seeing him – and refuse to tell anyone, including his _boyfriend – what it was about._

Their talk done, the tall man blew a whistle, and immediately the kids stopped what they were doing and thronged around Evan and his companion. Pietro was too far away to hear what was being said, but in another second, the kids split up into two smaller groups, one group following Dreadlocks to one end of the court and the rest trailing behind Evan to the other end. Pietro followed the latter group, speeding to the other end of the bleachers before one could blink, kicking up a huge cloud of dust as he went. Coughing a little as the dust swirled around him, the white-haired teen crept low to the floor and peered through the bleachers at his boyfriend, standing at the top of the key, saying something to the squirming little kids lined up before him. Pietro wished he could hear what was being said – some of the children seemed to be listening intently and others were busily poking each other and dragging their sneakers back and forth across the free-throw line. 

Amused, Pietro watched Evan dribble the ball shortly and pull up for a jump shot that swished through the net. It was the blond teen's signature move, and Pietro silently admired his boyfriend's scoring prowess. It was the one part of Evan's game Pietro had never been able to fault – Evan could score at will from almost anywhere on the court, and that coupled with the white-haired boy's speed and rebounding ability had made them a force in neighborhood pick-up games _and _on PS 104's varsity team. Pietro watched Evan sink another basket – a hook shot this time – and noticed that more of the kids were paying attention, even those who'd been goofing off before. Evan pointed to two kids in the front, said something to them, handed them the ball and stood back as the two took turns unsuccessfully trying to re-create Evan's moves. The blond teen watched the two kids struggle for a moment before calling up two more kids. When they, too, failed to get the ball anywhere near the net, two more were called to the fore, and so on until all the children had a chance to fail at making a basket. Pietro shook his head. The kids were probably between 8 and 10, and some of them were quite short, but their skills, such as they were, were pitiful. _They would've been eaten alive back home. The speedster chuckled a little to think of how even the last kids to get chosen for pickup games back in his and Evan's Brooklyn neighborhood would have been four times the player these kids seemed to be._

Pietro glanced up at the court at the group that was playing with Dreadlocks, and was a little surprised to see the kids posting up and shooting well. Hardly anyone in that group, in fact, missed a basket with the taller man looking on impassively. _Hmm. They stuck Daniels with the rejects. What an insult. _Pietro looked quickly over at his boyfriend's squad in time to see one of the kids trip over the ball he'd been dribbling. Evan, he noted, looked slightly exasperated, but he was, so far as Pietro could see, keeping cool, stopping the kids when they made really silly mistakes, and correcting them as best he could.

The problem, though, so far as Pietro could tell from his cramped perch, was Evan's assumption that the kids he was coaching had the same sort of skills _he _had. Pietro doubted he'd say it to Evan's face – but Evan's brand of shooting really couldn't be taught. Their old coach at PS 104 had said it over and over again – there were two things that came naturally to a player – the ability to create his or her own shot, and speed. Pietro knew _he _had an abundance of speed, so he'd never really tried to hone his shooting game, and as a result, he'd not been as great a scorer as Evan or any of their other teammates. Watching a couple of fidgety kids horsing around with each other, Pietro wondered if maybe Evan had been saddled with kids who had speed but no shooting ability, in which case Evan was wasting perfectly good makeout time on a lost cause.

_And that means, I'm getting shafted, too. And not in the good way. _Wincing as two of Evan's players simultaneously threw balls toward the basket that barely touched the bottom of the net, Pietro brushed the dust off his pants and decided that at the rate things were going, Evan would be in the center _all day with his band of misfits, and the speed demon was having none of that. Enough of the day had been wasted._

_Get ready to meet your savior, Daniels. _Running a hand through his snowy hair, Pietro sped once around the court, whipping up an odd wind at the far side of the court that made everyone turn and stare – including Evan, who was then understandably nonplussed to turn around and find his smirking boyfriend standing behind him.

"What the – Maximoff, what are _you doing here?"_

_Missed you, too, Evan. _Pietro smiled innocently. "Getting some exercise." He looked at the youths, who, recovering from the windy diversion, had resumed their shooting drills. "Jesus, Daniels, I know you generally get your ass handed to you on the court, but even this level of competition," he nodded at the kids, "is a little too weak for _you._ Maybe."

He said it with just the right teasing tone, but Pietro was a little surprised when Evan didn't give him a cute little smirk in reply. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Christ, was it supposed to be a state secret?" Pietro raised an eyebrow. "I did some research. Did you think you'd be able to hide forever? I _always _manage to find you, Spykeboy."

Pietro's slight smile wilted a little under Evan's deadly serious look. The spike shooter was really looking pissed off, and the speedster could not imagine why. "C'mon, Daniels, you being all seeeeeecretive? You think I'd stand for that? I wanted to know what was up." Pietro smiled a little more and pulled out his heavy ammunition. "It was a _challenge_. Besides . . . Rockhead and Goggleboy were getting way too loud." He grimaced. "IwasgoingcrazyIhadtogetout!"

Evan blinked at the speed speak, but the first half of the statement had the desired effect. Smiling a little, the blond shook his head. "Yeah, they _do _get a little . . . wild. It's weird, 'cause Scott doesn't even snore." Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder at his group, and turned back to his boyfriend. "It wasn't a _secret, man, I just never said anything 'cause . . . 'cause . . . I don't know, I didn't think you'd care."_

Pietro frowned.  "Gee, thanks a lot, Daniels. Way to make me look like the insensitive boyfriend." Sighing theatrically, he folded his arms. "I've been asking you for weeks where the hell you go . . . that seem to you like I don't give a shit about what you do?"

"Look, I didn't mean it that way. It's just . . . y'know, we both kinda do our own thing." Evan shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "Anyway, when I'm out boarding, you don't wanna hear about it."

"I don't board," Pietro returned with a shrug. _And I'd rather arm wrestle Freddy for a Ding-dong than hang out with those losers you skate with. "I __do play basketball, though. So what's the deal?" He gestured at the other end of the court. "Who's he and what's with the Cub Scout league? Is this some sort of X-Geek sports outreach program?" Pietro eyed the youngsters with a little more interest. "Are these  . . . _special _kids? Baldy's getting his dibs in early?" _

"_No._" Catching his meaning, Evan shook his head vehemently. "The mansion doesn't have anything to do with this." Looking up the court at Dreadlocks, he lowered his voice. "That's Chi."

"Chee? Like Chee-tos?" Pietro snickered. _Oh, great. I start thinking about Freddy, and now I'm thinking like _him. _"He looks more like a _Doritos_ man to me. The extra-cheesy kind." He glared at the older man's back. Sure he had legs for miles and a fairly nice body, but Pietro assured himself that this Chee guy was the last type to turn Evan's head. The blond tended to like his guys with less height and more mouth._

"C-h-i. Chi Peterson. He's trying to put together a Bayville youth basketball league. Or at least a team," Evan answered. "He and Coach are friends – he played with Coach's son at State. He came to practice one day a couple of months ago and told us about the league and that he could use some volunteers to help him handle some of the kids who aren't ready to join the traveling squad. You know, run some drills, help 'em with fundamentals, that kind of thing."

"Uh-huh. Looks like it's working like a charm," Pietro said dryly as a ball clanged uselessly against the backboard. "You know, if you're trying to _mold _these kids into players in your image, Daniels, I think you'd better use different clay."

Evan ignored the jibe. "_Anyway, _Coach made it kinda mandatory for every body in the starting five to spend two weeks helping out Chi and his kids. He said it'd be good community service, teach us spirit of togetherness, all that. Every Saturday, one of us would come in, find out what kids needed the extra help, and work with them. I was the last one to have to come."

Pietro digested this information in silence a minute. "You've been doing this disappearing act a lot longer than just two weeks."

"Yeah, I . . ." Evan stopped, and scratched his head. "It was weird man – everybody who'd done it before me seriously _hated it. I mean, it's a Saturday afternoon – or part of it – that you're spending cooped up, running around with little kids –"_

"— When you _could _be boinking your utterly flawless boyfriend's brains out."

"Maximoff!" Evan darted a look to the kids nearby who, beyond a few curious ones who were gawking at Pietro's hair, were mainly oblivious.

"Just an observation." Pietro smiled blithely at Evan's indignant look. "Go on."

"All I'm trying to say is, I came in here, just looking to fill the time so Coach would be happy. But, I got here, and I really started to like it. I mean _really _like it. Chi is cool, and working with the kids has been pretty awesome. I mean it's weird, man. They totally look up to me."

"Oh, and here I thought _that _was because they only came up to your kneecaps."

"Screw you." Evan made a face. "But anyway, I decided to stay after my time was up. Chi offered me like an internship thing. I can get PE credit if I want. Plus, it helps keep me in practice, and I think I kinda like coaching. It'd be cool to do something like Chi and run my own league. That'd be cool as hell."

"Right. But before you thinking about commissioning someone to build you a _state of the art _rec center," Pietro said this while giving the court a disdaining glance. "Maybe you could get some kids who can _play _first."

Following Pietro's gaze, Evan was silent as the two of them watched the group of kids struggle through more shooting drills. "They're learning, man. I'm working with them. Some of them aren't as old as the kids on Chi's squad."

"These aren't shooters, and you know it. You had your touch when you were younger than them. So did I." Pietro ducked out of the way as an errant ball sailed by his elbow. "You're wasting your time trying to cram jump shots down their throat. It's not gonna work."

"_I _don't know that and neither do you. Some of them –"

"Look, Daniels, be smart for a change. I _know you can do it." Pietro knocked gently on Evan's forehead. "For starters – they're not tall enough to be able to post and lay the ball in. And they for damn sure can't jump –"_

"How do _you_ –"

"– So why don't you just tell these little rugrats to hang it up and come back when they grow a few feet _or they get legs like Todd's? Or get the fast ones, teach them to run the court, crash the boards and develop their games __that way? See? Easy. I should have __my own league. I'd own this town." Pietro ran a hand over his hair. "Solet'sgetoutofhereandmakeout." Grinning a little at Evan's confused look, he said, "Or, if you insist on hanging around, there's this nice little spot behind the bleachers. We could –"_

"I have a better idea." Quicker than Pietro had imagined Evan could move, the blond had his hands on the speedster's shoulders and was pushing him in the direction of the door. "Why don't _you leave and let me do my job? I need to concentrate man, and I can't do that while _you're _here."_

"Why not? Afraid I'll distract you?" Pietro easily sped out of Evan's grip and again zipped around the perimeter of the court before whizzing back to the blond's side. "What could _I _do to distract _you, _Spykey?"

"Would you chill with the speed trials? I had the weirdest feeling that was you the first time it got all windy in here." Evan's eyes darted around nervously, and he breathed a sigh of relief when no one seemed to have noticed the whirl of air and silver streak that had rimmed the court. "I mean it, 'Tro. Go back to your place. I'll be there in another hour – tops. I promise."

"What? And listen to Scott and Lance pollute the air with their horniness? Hell no!"

"They've gotta be done by _now. And if they aren't, play music or something. Put in earplugs." Evan leaned close, and Pietro felt his body tingle in response to their closeness. "Or you could listen to them and pretend it's us doing what __they're doing."_

"Uh . . ." Pietro swallowed hard as his cheeks turned crimson. "Wouldn't work. We don't make _nearly_ as much noise." 

"Maybe that'll change," Evan continues in the same seductive murmur. "Just hang out at your place a little while, and I'll . . ." He whispered the rest in the speedster's ear, one hand resting gently on the small of Pietro's back. Listening intently, Pietro felt his face grow hot enough to melt, and it was a fully scarlet face that Evan pulled back and smiled into after another moment of whispering. They stared at each other for a moment, Pietro's eyes riveted to Evan's, searching, attempting to discern if the blond teen were serious, and Pietro's face grew even warmer when he saw the determination and subtle promise in the dark-brown eyes. Pietro swallowed hard.

Finding his voice, Pietro finally managed, "An hour, Daniels. Or I come back here, drag you to center court and stick my tongue down your throat in front of these rugrats and everybody. How's _that for a _spirit _of togetherness? Coach would be thrilled."___

"It might be less than an hour." Evan looked at his watch, and then back at the speed demon. "Now that I've got it in my mind . . . I don't think I'll be able to concentrate on much else." He swiped his bottom lip with his tongue in a manner that made Pietro want to spontaneously combust. "And 'Tro – I'll bring up the rebounding thing to Chi. Some of these kids _are fast. It'd be worth a shot getting them to develop that if it means they can get on the main squad." Evan gave the speedster a genuinely sweet smile. "Now get out of here and get stuff together. Clock's ticking."_

"Umokayseeyoulaterbye!" Hesitating only to squeeze his boyfriend's hand, Pietro zoomed off, kicking up another cloud of dust and creating another wind-tunnel effect as he sped off into the bright Saturday afternoon. There was at least a _little bit of work to do now and would keep him occupied while Evan busied himself with his Dud Squad. After all, if, as Evan had promised, they were going to "christen" every room in the Brotherhood house, then the whole place would have to be cleaned top to bottom. And there was that __one matter of  what Evan had suggested they do in the Jeep, but on that, Pietro reflected, they'd have to act incredibly quick, or Lance and possibly Scott would be in for a hell of a surprise.  _

*finis*


End file.
